Sophie Kinsella's Shopaholic 5-Book Bundle (65 page)

There's silence. I can feel my cheeks growing redder and redder.

“You know what, Suze,” I admit sheepishly at last. “I think it kind of might have been . . . my fault.”

“
Your
fault?” She raises her head and stares at me. “How come?”

“I gave him the jumper. And the hairstyle.” I flinch at her expression. “But I mean, I had no idea it would lead to . . . to this! All I did was give him a look!”

“Well, you've got a lot to answer for!” cries Suze. “I've been so stressed. I just keep thinking, I must be a complete pervert.”

“Why?” I say, my eyes brightening. “What does he get you to do?”

“No, silly! Because we're cousins. Well, distant cousins, but still . . .”

“Ooh.” I pull a face—then realize that isn't exactly tactful. “But I mean, it's not against the law or anything, is it?”

“Oh God, Bex!” wails Suze. “That really makes me feel better.”

She picks up her mug and mine, takes them over to the sink, and starts to run the tap.

“I just can't believe you're having a relationship with Tarquin!” I say.

“We're not having a relationship!” squeals Suze, as though I've scalded her. “That's the point. Last night was the very last time. We're both completely agreed. It'll never happen again.
Never.
And you mustn't tell anyone.”

“I won't.”

“No, I'm serious, Bex. You mustn't tell anyone. No one!”

“I won't! I promise! In fact—” I say, having a sudden idea. “I've got something for you.”

I hurry into the hall, open one of my suitcases, and scrabble for the Kate's Paperie carrier bag. I pluck a card from the pile, scribble “To Suze, love Bex” inside, and return to the kitchen, sealing the envelope.

“Is this for me?” says Suze in surprise. “What is it?”

“Open it!”

She tears it open, looks at the picture of a zipped-up pair of lips, and reads aloud the printed message:

Roomie—your secret's safe with me.

“Wow!” she says, wide-eyed. “That's so cool! Did you buy it especially? But I mean . . .” She frowns. “How did you know I'd have a secret?”

“Er . . . just a hunch,” I say. “You know. Sixth sense.”

“You know, Bex, that reminds me,” says Suze, flipping the envelope back and forth in her fingers. “You got quite a lot of post while you were away.”

“Oh right.”

In the astonishment of hearing about Suze and Tarquin, I'd kind of forgotten about everything else. But now the hysteria which has been lifting my spirits starts to evaporate. As Suze brings over a pile of unfriendly-looking envelopes, my stomach gives a nasty flip, and I suddenly wish I'd never come home. At least while I was away, I didn't have to know about any of this.

“Right,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant and on top of things. I leaf through the letters without really looking at them—then put them down. “I'll look at them later. When I can give them my full attention.”

“Bex . . .” Suze pulls a face. “I think you'd better open this one now.” She reaches for the pile and pulls out a brown envelope with the word
SUMMONS
on the front.

I stare at it, feeling mortified. A summons. It was true. I've been summonsed. I take the envelope from Suze, unable to meet her eye, and rip it open with trembling fingers. I scan the letter without saying anything, feeling a growing coldness at the base of my spine. I can't quite believe people would actually take me to court. I mean, court is for criminals. Like drug dealers and murderers. Not for people who just miss a couple of bills.

I stuff the letter back into its envelope and put it on the counter, breathing hard.

“Bex . . . what are you going to do?” says Suze, biting her lip. “You can't just ignore that one.”

“I won't. I'll pay them.”

“But can you afford to pay them?”

“I'll have to.”

There's silence, apart from the drip-drip of the cold-water tap into the sink. I look up, to see Suze's face contorted with worry.

“Bex—let me give you some money. Or Tarkie will. He can easily afford it.”

“No!” I say, more sharply than I'd intended. “No, I don't want any help. I'll just . . .” I rub my face. “I'll go and see the guy at the bank. Today. Right now.”

With a sudden surge of determination I scoop up the pile of letters and head to my room. I'm not going to let all this defeat me. I'm going to wash my face, and put on some makeup, and get my life back in order.

“What will you say?” says Suze, following me down the corridor.

“I'll explain the situation to him honestly, and ask him for a bigger overdraft . . . and take it from there. I'm going to be independent and strong, and stand on my own two feet.”

“Good for you, Bex!” says Suze. “That's really fantastic. Independent and strong. That's really great!” She watches as I try to open my suitcase with shaking fingers. As I struggle with the clasp for the third time, she comes over and puts a hand on my arm. “Bex—would you like me to come too?”

“Yes, please,” I say in a small voice.

Suze won't let me go anywhere until I've sat down and had a couple of brandies for Dutch courage. Then she tells me how she read an article the other day that said your best negotiating weapon is your appearance—so I must choose my outfit for seeing John Gavin very carefully. We go right through my wardrobe and end up with a plain black skirt and gray cardigan which I reckon shouts “frugal, sober, and steady.” Then she has to choose her own “sensible, supportive friend” outfit (navy trousers and a white shirt). And we're almost ready to go when Suze decides that if nothing else works, we might have to flirt outrageously with him, so we both change into sexy underwear. Then I look at myself in the mirror and suddenly decide I look too drab. So I quickly change into a pale pink cardigan, which means changing my lipstick.

At last we get out of the house and arrive at the Fulham branch of Endwich Bank. As we go in, Derek Smeath's old assistant, Erica Parnell, is showing out a middle-aged couple. Between you and me, she and I have never exactly got on. I don't think she can be quite human—she's been wearing exactly the same navy blue shoes every time I've seen her.

“Oh, hello,” she says, shooting me a look of dislike. “What do you want?”

“I'd like to see John Gavin, please,” I say, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “Is he available?”

“I shouldn't think so,” she says coldly. “Not without notice.”

“Well . . . could you possibly just check?”

Erica Parnell rolls her eyes.

“Wait there,” she says and disappears behind a door marked “Private.”

“God, they're horrible here!” says Suze, lolling against a glass partition. “When I go to see my bank manager he gives me a glass of sherry and asks me about all the family! You know, Bex, I really think you should move to Coutts.”

“Yes, well,” I say. “Maybe.”

I'm feeling slightly jittery as I leaf through a pile of insurance brochures. I'm remembering what Derek Smeath said about John Gavin being rigorous and inflexible. Oh God, I miss old Smeathie.

Oh God, I miss Luke.

The feeling hits me like a hammer blow. Since I got back from New York I've been trying not to think about him at all. But as I stand here, all I wish is that I could talk to him. I wish I could see him looking at me like he used to before everything went wrong. With that quizzical little smile on his face, and his arms wrapped tightly around me.

I wonder what he's doing now. I wonder how his meetings are going.

“Come this way,” comes Erica Parnell's voice, and my head jerks up. Feeling slightly sick, I follow her down a blue-carpeted corridor, into a chilly little room furnished with a table and plastic chairs. As the door closes behind her, Suze and I look at each other.

“Shall we run away?” I say, only half-joking.

“It's going to be fine!” says Suze. “He'll probably turn out to be really nice! You know, my parents once had this gardener, and he seemed really grumpy—but then we found out he had a pet rabbit! And it was like, he was a completely different—”

She breaks off as the door swings open and in strides a guy of about thirty. He's got thinning dark hair, is wearing a rather nasty suit, and is holding a plastic cup of coffee.

He doesn't look as though he's got a friendly bone in his body. Suddenly I wish we hadn't come.

“Right,” he says with a frown. “I haven't got all day. Which of you is Rebecca Bloomwood?”

The way he says it, it's like he's asking which one of us threw up on the carpet.

“Erm . . . I am,” I say nervously.

“And who's this?”

“Suze is my—”

“People,” says Suze confidently. “I'm her people.” She looks around the room. “Do you have any sherry?”

“No,” says John Gavin, looking at her as though she's subnormal. “I don't have any sherry. Now what's this about?”

“OK, first of all,” I say nervously, “I've brought you something.” I reach into my bag and hand him another Kate's Paperie envelope.

It was my own idea to bring him a little something to break the ice. After all, it's only good manners. And in Japan, this is how business is done all the time.

“Is this a check?” says John Gavin.

“Erm . . . no,” I say, coloring slightly. “It's a . . . a handmade card.”

John Gavin gives me a look, then rips the envelope open and pulls out a card printed in silver, with pink feathers glued to the corners.

Now that I look at it, maybe I should have chosen a less girly one.

Or not brought one at all. But it seemed so perfect for the occasion.

Friend—I know I've made mistakes, but can we start over?

John Gavin reads incredulously. He turns it over, as though suspecting a joke. “Did you
buy
this?”

“It's nice, isn't it!” says Suze. “You get them in New York.”

“I see. I'll bear that in mind.” He puts it up on the table and we all look at it. “Miss Bloomwood, why exactly are you here?”

“Right!” I say. “Well. As my greeting card states, I'm aware that I have . . .” I swallow. “Perhaps not been the perfect . . . ideal customer. However, I'm confident that we can work together as a team, and achieve harmony.”

So far so good. I learned that bit off by heart.

“Which means?” says John Gavin.

I clear my throat. “Um . . . due to circumstances beyond my control, I have recently found myself in a slight financial . . . situation. So I was wondering whether you could perhaps temporarily . . .”

“Very kindly . . .” puts in Suze.

“Very kindly . . . perhaps extend my overdraft a little further, on a . . . a short-term . . .”

“Goodwill . . .” interjects Suze.

“Goodwill . . . temporary . . . short-term basis. Obviously to be paid back as soon as is feasibly and humanly possible.” I stop, and draw breath.

“Have you finished?” says John Gavin, folding his arms.

“Erm . . . yes.” I look to Suze for confirmation. “Yes, we have.”

There's silence while John Gavin drums his Biro on the table. Then he looks up and says, “No.”

“No?” I look at him puzzledly. “Is that just . . . no?”

“Just no.” He pushes back his chair. “So if you'll excuse me—”

“What do you mean, no?” says Suze. “You can't just say no! You have to weigh up the pros and cons!”

“I have weighed up the pros and the cons,” says John Gavin. “There are no pros.”

“But this is one of your most valued customers!” Suze's voice rises in dismay. “This is Becky Bloomwood of TV fame, who has a huge, glittering career in front of her!”

“This is Becky Bloomwood who has had her overdraft limit extended six times in the last year,” says John Gavin in a rather nasty voice. “And who each time has failed to keep within those limits. This is Becky Bloomwood who has consistently lied, who has consistently avoided meetings, who has treated bank staff with little or no respect, and who seems to think we're all here solely to fund her appetite for shoes. I've looked at your file, Miss Bloomwood. I know the picture.”

There's a subdued little silence. I can feel my cheeks getting hotter and hotter and I've got a horrible feeling I might cry.

“I don't think you should be so mean!” says Suze in a burst. “Becky's just had a really awful time! Would
you
like to be in the tabloids? Would
you
like to have someone stalking you?”

“Oh, I see!” His voice glints with sarcasm. “You expect me to feel sorry for you!”

“Yes!” I say. “No. Not exactly. But I think you should give me a chance.”

“You think I should give you another chance. And what have you done to
merit
another chance?” He shakes his head, and there's silence.

“I just . . . I thought if I explained it all to you . . .” I tail off feebly and shoot Suze a hopeless look to say, “Let's just forget it.”

“Hey, is it hot in here?” says Suze in a sudden husky voice. She takes off her jacket, shakes back her hair, and runs one hand down her cheek. “I'm feeling really . . . hot. Are you feeling hot, John?”

John Gavin shoots her an irritated look.

“What precisely did you want to explain to me, Miss Bloomwood?”

“Well. Just that I really want to sort things out,” I say, my voice trembling. “You know, I really want to turn things around. I want to stand on my own two feet, and—”

“Stand on your own two feet?” interrupts John Gavin scathingly. “You call taking handouts from a bank ‘standing on your own two feet'? If you were really standing on your own two feet, you'd have no overdraft. You'd have a few
assets
by now! You, of all people, shouldn't need telling that.”

“I . . . I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “But the fact is, I have got an overdraft. And I just thought—”

“You thought what? That you're special? That you're an exception because you're on the television? That the normal rules don't apply to you? That this bank
owes
you money?”

His voice is like a drill in my head and suddenly I feel myself snap.

“No!” I cry. “I don't think that. I don't think any of that. I know I've been stupid, and I know I've done wrong. But I think that everyone does wrong occasionally.” I take a deep breath. “You know, if you look at your files, you'll see I
did
pay off my overdraft. And I
did
pay off my store cards. And OK, I'm in debt again. But I'm trying to sort it out—and all you can do is . . . is sneer. Well, fine. I'll sort myself out without your help. Come on, Suze.”